Be None of It
by SheWritesThings
Summary: Steve finally agrees to go on one of Natasha's dates. In which Steve Rogers is happy. Mature content warning. Post Civil war, pre infinity war.


Note: my character here, Elsie, is inspired by Mo from my other series, but loosely so. its been years since ive written her and she has evolved and there is no romance between her and bucky; this is a Cap-centered story. the only similarity is their military history and injuries.

**Chapter 1**

He had agreed to go on the date to appease Natasha. After she'd been injured, and he'd made the snap (and extremely risky) decision to take her to a Stark Outreach and Relief hospital and the surgery that had put her back together, and after she had met her nurse, she hadn't left him alone about it. The only way to get her to leave him alone was to give her what she wanted.

"_Don't kiss on the first date." _ Natasha's voice is ringing in his ears, her teasing goodbye. Elsie's legs are around his waist, her nails biting into his back as she presses closer, her legs tightening around him, pressing him more deeply into her.

He had met Nat's nurse, Elsie, a handful of times and he had always thought she was very pretty -all warm brown skin, splashes of freckles - pretty in a way that made him nervous, reminded him of just how good he hadn't been with women before. So he avoided the situation, didn't speak to her much when she was in the room, avoided her gaze, kept conversation curt and professional, which Natasha had noticed. She missed nothing.

"_And don't be out too late." _Steve's fingers clutch the sheets beside Elsie's head and he groans, perhaps a little louder than he intends to. He buries his face in her neck and she arches her back beneath him with a gasp. "Don't stop," she moans, and it sounds like a plea. He knows that the scratches on his back will sting later, but right now her nails in his skin draw a growl from his throat and he props himself up on one arm for balance, using the other to grab her face as he kisses her, sinking his teeth into her lower lip.

Natasha had been obsessed with the nurse. If she'd had friends, Elsie probably would have been one of them. She took no shit, had a dry, long-suffering sense of humor, and she hadn't revealed them to her superiors, which surely would have ended up in their arrests.

"_Most importantly - just have fun, okay?"_ Elsie is kissing him fervently, one hand in his hair. She cries out against his mouth, her hand tightening in his hair and she closes her eyes, and he finishes soon after.

But now Natasha was healed and they had said goodbye to Elsie - or so Steve had thought. As it turned out, she had given Nat her contact info, warning them not to return to the hospital, but that if they were in the area and needed care, she would help them. It was bold and rebellious, considering who she worked for. After Nat had done a background check and refused to tell Steve a thing, she had insisted on the date.

All of which led him to where he currently was, and where he hadn't expected to be. He rolls to the side so as not to squish her, resting on his back beside Elsie, who is staring up at the ceiling, panting. So is he. He rakes his hands over his face, heart pounding, and for a few moments there is only the sound of their heavy breathing before they slowly look at each other.

Elsie laughs, a big smile on her face, and tilts her head back. "That was amazing," she sighs, and he feels a little surge of pride. "Wow," she breathes.

"Wow," he agrees.

She sits up and the sheets fall into her lap. She tosses her legs over the bed - one of them is badly injured, a traumatic amputation - and she settles herself into the prosthetic which attaches just below her left knee.

"Water?" she asks, and he nods.

"Sure," he says. He's a little awed by her confidence as she walks through her tiny apartment completely naked, exiting the room for a few moments before returning with two glasses of water in hand. She hands him a glass and drops herself back onto the bed in front of him, just beside his outstretched legs. She crosses her good leg over the prosthetic and rakes a hand through her loose, dark hair.

"So, uh," she says after a moment. "This is my home."

He grins, sips his water. He tries his best to keep his eyes trained on her face, but he can't remember the last time he had been in a situation like this, with a naked women lounging just before him, seemingly without a care in the world.

"Do I make you nervous?" she asks suddenly, and he blinks a couple of times.

"What?"

"You're starting like, really hard at my face," she says with a smirk. "And you keep tapping your water."

He grimaces and scratches at the back of his neck.

"Sorry," he starts, but she shrugs.

"I can cover up - "

"It's fine," he says, and she takes a drink of water, eyeing him with sparkling eyes. She licks her lips.

"So," she finally says. She's so relaxed now, so easy going. "_Captain America -_ don't make that face!" She laughs. "Tell me something about you. Not something I would read in a museum."

She peers at him over the edge of her glass and he considers carefully. And maybe it's the afterglow, or maybe it's her disarming smile and the tilt to her head, but he finds himself confessing to her something that he hasn't said aloud in a very long time.

"My birthday isn't the Fourth of July," he says, and it almost feels good to say it aloud. She watches him. "That's just something they came up with for the character. It stuck." He points a teasing finger at her. "Very few people know that. If it gets out -"

"You'll be ruined," she drawls, and he laughs a bit. "So when is it really?"

"November," he says. "November 13th." She's quiet for a moment. He nudges her with his foot beneath the covers. "Your turn."

"What do you want to know?"

He crosses his arms over his chest and he notices her eyes rove over his body. A flush creeps over her neck and cheeks. She licks her lips again. That little nagging insecurity worms it's way into his mind and he tries to shake it away, but instead he gives it a voice.

"Are we only here because I'm… _him?"_

She meets his eyes and holds his gaze for a few long moments. He almost looks away. "No," she finally says. "We're here because of Natasha." He chuckles. "I almost _didn't _go out with you because of _him._ But I'm glad I'm here."

"What do you mean you almost didn't?"

"Because you're you and I'm me_._" She gestures vaguely at her body and kicks her prosthetic up, her fingertips brushing over the twisted, waxy burn scars on her hips and abdomen. For the first time since they'd fallen into bed, her confidence wavers. She clears her throat and meets his eyes again.

"_This_," she says, gesturing between them, "I don't do this a lot. After the accident -"

"Hey," he says gently. "It's okay. Neither do I."

She rakes her and through her hair again and blows out a breath. Her hand falls to her side, then absently traces over her scars now, like she's thinking about them. But her eyes are on his scars: the old healed cuts and scrapes, the gunshot wounds from where Bucky had shot him. He runs his fingertips over the one near his hip.

"My best friend shot me," he says lowly. "A few times."

She leans toward him, adjusting herself so that she's laying on her stomach, draped over his legs. Gently, her fingers pass over the knotted skin, and he tenses a little bit.

"There's nothing really like it, is there?" she asks softly. "Being shot," she says in response to his look.

"I mean, the whole procedure where they made me big was pretty painful," he says dryly, and she nearly chokes on a laugh. He smiles. "You've been shot?" he asks a few moments later and she nods, rotating slightly to show him the old scar on her shoulder blade.

"Afghanistan," she says. Her eyes darken. "I was a combat medic. It was just one really shitty day, you know? Like, the worst day. I got shot, and then we got blown up, and…"

He meets her eyes and he knows that she understands. Then she blinks and the sadness is gone. "Well," she says, tossing her hair. "_My _best friend kissed the boy I liked when we were fourteen. I'm not saying my trauma is worse or anything - "

He laughs abruptly, a warm, genuine laugh, in a way that he hasn't in what feels like decades. A wide smile breaks over her face and she sits up, crawling closer to him, and he draws her to him and kisses her. She places a hand on his scruffy face and he looks at her, still smiling.

"They never showed us pictures of you smiling," she says softly, and she leans in a little, almost timidly, and presses her forehead against his. She makes a face. "Captain America was always so serious."

He grimaces again, placing his hand over hers. "Do me a favor," he says, pulling away a little and meeting her eyes. His voice is low and gentle."Don't call me that."

She nods, then leans past him to place her glass on her little nightstand. Her body presses against him as she does and his breath catches and his hands fall to her hips. He's almost startled by himself as she settles back; his grip on her body is light and gentle, not at all restraining.

For a few moments they just watch each other without speaking. She's on her knees, having positioned herself so that he has to look up at her. They're both so still, and he rubs his thumb gently over her skin, both the soft parts and the rough scars.

Then her hands reach out and she touches him: her fingertips start at his jawline and trace down his neck, light enough to give him goosebumps. He nearly closes his eyes. It hadn't been like this before. No, before it had been heated, passionate kissing, lifting her and slamming her against the wall, tossing her onto the bed and wasting no time climbing above her. It had been rough and a little bit desperate and _so_ good.

But now she throws one leg over his hips so that she's straddling him, and he's already lost in her, following her every move, his eyes on her lips. His hands trace over her back and she kisses him, slow and soft, and he savors every second. She slides one hand into his hair and tugs, tilting his head back, her other hand on his neck and he's completely enveloped by her. She presses her body against him and breathes his name.

"You can touch me," she says as she kisses him, and he obliges instantly, his hands pressing over every inch of her, taking her in. His mouth slips away from hers, dragging down over her chin and jaw, over her neck and collarbone and she arches her neck back for him, tugging the sheet away from his hips. She grinds her hips against his and he sinks his teeth into her collarbone before she grabs his jaw with one hand and kisses him again.

Reaching down with one hand, she guides him in, sinking onto him so slowly that he can't help but to groan against her lips. He feels her smile a little before she presses her forehead against his, and he can feel her shaking. She pauses a moment once she's settled, murmurs that he feels amazing before she begins moving up and down.

He curses, his voice low and roug, and she tangles her fingers with his and traps them against the headboard, using him for support, and he takes a moment to just sit back and watch her, to take her all in.

"Kiss me," she says softly, her voice again like a plea. He kisses her and feels her body surge, and she digs her fingers into one of his shoulders. He growls, and he can tell by the way she's panting and by the way her fingers clutch at him that she's close. He grabs a fistful of her hair as she kisses him and gives it a tug, drawing her mouth away.

"Come on," he urges roughly and it works. She goes rigid and gasps, and he kisses her neck as she rides it out until she's soft in his arms, and though he's close too, he pulls out and presses her back until she falls backward, looking confused. He hovers over her, looping his arms beneath her thighs and tugging her toward him before drawing her legs apart.

This time, he lets his eyes wander her body hungrily, and he leans over her and kisses her hard and she responds to match him, her lips hungry and desperate. His hands are firm and a little rough now, and his hand on her neck moves to grip her throat and he squeezes. She lets out a sharp, needy cry, and she lifts her legs on either side of his hips and he can feel them trembling. He can't help it; he smirks.

He leaves her with a few teasing kisses before licking, sucking and biting his way down her chest, to her stomach, her hips. He teases her only for a few more moments, until she begs:

"Steve, please," she whimpers, and he devours her until she's squirming, until her thighs threaten to crush his head. Only then does he pry them back apart and work his way back up her body to kiss her again. "Come on," she says as he buries his face in her chest. "I need you."

With a low growl, he finally enters her slowly, but still, it's not like before. It's slower this time, deeper; they can feel every inch of each other and she can't keep her hands off of him. She arches and writhes beneath him, her teeth on his throat, his chest, her hands both knotted in his hair, holding him in place so that she can kiss him deeply.

He doesn't last much longer, and when he finally finishes they are both spent. This time, he gives her a little of his weight, and his arms on either side of her head shake with the effort. She lets out a satisfied moan at the feel of his body pressing down on hers, and this time he only rolls slightly to the side, keeping her close.

He isn't sure if it's the right move, as far as modern post-sex etiquette, but she doesn't object in the slightest. She turns into him so that her chest presses against his, and her hands drift lazily over his body, long, slow strokes.

He ducks his head a little, nuzzling the top of her head. The bedsheets are a twisted mess, but he draws them up over their bodies and she runs her hands over his chest.

They're quiet for a while, exchanging lazy kisses, and then the talking starts again and they establish a pattern: sex and talking and laughing. Steve is surprised by how open he is with her about some things, but then again, maybe it's easier to to open with a stranger who's seen you naked. They talk about silly things: his cheesy old movies and detention videos she'd grown up with, funny work stories, and he talks about his friends. They talk about their fears, and religion, and their happiest memories and their dreams, and he learns that Elsie is going to adopt a girl she had met on an outreach mission a year ago. He learns that she's afraid of cats and lightning and that she hates pickles; he talks about his old life and who he was before, the things she could never know from history books; he confesses his fears, that maybe he really doesn't know who to be without a war to fight.

And the pattern continues into the quiet hours of the morning, until, completely spent, they fall asleep mid-sentence. And he rests well - so well, in fact, that he sleeps over and doesn't wake until the next morning, and when he does he finds that Elsie is gone.


End file.
